The taxi pulled up at Chartwell hospital. Mark walked in, trying to ignore the smell: fresh antiseptic with an undertone of artificial fragrance – for some reason, it reminded him how helpless he was, trapped by his own plans, unable to stay and get to the bottom of the real reason why he was here. Why had his mother fallen? He scanned a map searching for the name of theward Deidre had given him, then thumped along the linoleum floors, gathering speed when he found what he was looking for. He pushed open the swing doors and his gaze fell on a tangle of grey hair above a familiar round face. He tiptoed towards the bed. His mother was lying on her back with her eyes shut; her skin looked floppy, sunken, and sallow. He swallowed the lump in his throat and picked up her hand. It was dry, like sandpaper, but felt limp. He stroked it for a few moments, grappling with his emotions, biting his lip to stop himself from crying.
Her eyes flickered open, and she grinned up at him. ‘What are you doing here boyo?’ she asked in a croaky voice.
He perched on the bed. She hefted herself into a sitting position and he leaned over, wrapping her in his arms, wanting to smell baking not the detergent of her hospital gown.
‘I’m going home today, love. Wish you’d waited. I can’t cook for you in here, can’t even offer you a cup of tea.’
‘How would you do either of those on crutches? You could’ve really hurt yourself falling over, you’ve been lucky this time. Have they given you a date for that hip operation?’
‘No, but I have got a date to see the specialist about that heart thingamabob – you know, thepalptations.’
‘It’spalpitations,Mum. There’s an I in the word. When?’
Her face creased into a wide smile. ‘Well, I never. Palpitations,’ she said emphasizing the I. ‘End of March.’
‘But, Mum, that’s monthsaway.’
‘It’s the backlog from the pandemic.’
Should he be worried, Mark wondered. It wasn’t long before the ferry would bring them home; weeks when the B&B would be shut – after October half-term week the tourists evaporated – and he could spend time with his mother, cajole her into allowing him to pay for that hip replacement.
Two weeks later, crammed inside the Fiat 500, the Ellises drove to the port of Santander. The tiny backseats were devotedto the pets – secured by doggy seatbelts – and the car was filled with the pungent earthy smell of dog. Settling into the driver’s seat after filling up the tank, Mark gagged at the stench. Beside him, Emily was eating an apple – how could she, didn’t she feel nauseous? – and two snouts were strained forwards, twitching. He started the engine. Emily bit the remaining chunk of apple in two and fed the pieces to her pets, who crunched and slathered their way through the treat, sending a wave of dog breath over his shoulder. Mark’s nose wrinkled in disgust.
It was a long smelly journey through Spain, but the ferry trip home was better than their outward one. This time, Mark stood in the doorway of their cabin with a faint smile puckering the corners of his lips. His eyes were on his wife when she put down – rather than threw – her overnight case.
‘You’ve done well here, boyo!’
His stomach did a summersault. She hadn’t called him that since January, that playful copying of his mother’s accent.
He had done well. He’d booked months earlier, been polite to the woman at Brittany Ferries, asked her advice, said no to the idea of a dog-friendly cabin – he must ensure Emily never discovered those – and reserved one of three front cabins on a small ferry. The spacious en-suite room had its own double bed, television, drinks fridge, even a little seating area beneath two portholes.
Emily ran to the doorway and kissed him. Tingles of desire pulsed through him. The houses were nearly sold; the plan would work; he’d earn back her respect. It was the third time in as many weeks Mark had been rewarded with a kiss. The first had been after his acceptance of her suggestion that Fran house-sit, on the strict condition that the booze was locked away. The second was when he’d agreed to somerenovation work. It was an investment in his marriage. Mark negotiated an acceptable price with Miguel, and the builders moved in the day the Ellises left.Other than Fran, no bills would need paying until January, and the Devon house would sell before then.
In London, Mark settled into his old office, Emily into her old routine, and, in mid-December, Alex arrived. On his first morning home, Alex rose shortly after nine. He walked into the kitchen. His mother was sitting at the breakfast bar with Svetlana, mugs of coffee in front of them.
‘You’re quite safe,’ said his mother. ‘Your father left for Essex an hour ago.’
Alex opened the fridge. ‘Actually, if I’d known that’s where he was going, I would’ve gone too.’ He missed his gran; he hadn’t been up to see her since the summer because he’d been too busy in Devon.
Svetlana placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘What you want? Eggs? Toast? Coffee?’ she suggested, nudging him aside and reaching into the fridge.
‘Nah-ah,’ he scolded. ‘I can cook my own.’
After breakfast, Alex and his mother went Christmas shopping. Listening to carols tinkling in the background, they traipsed up the stairs to the first floor of Fortnum & Mason.
‘I love this store,’ said his mother, a little wistfully.
Alex picked up a moss-green velvet bag about the size of an iPad, running his fingers over the soft fabric, which was covered with a pattern of bees, each insect picked out in gold thread. ‘I think Jess would like this,’ he said, tracing the outline of a bee with his thumb, imagining his girlfriend opening the gift. He heard a long slow intake of breath.
‘How much?’ asked his mother, raising an eyebrow. Alex flipped over the price, saw his mother’s eyes sweep over the tag. ‘Go on then,’ she said, reaching for the bag.
‘Nah-ah,’ he said, snatching it back. ‘I can pay.’
When Alex got up the next morning, the house was buzzing. A snake of activity was winding its way through the ground-floor rooms. At its head was his mother, a list in one hand, issuing orders to move furniture and ornaments; Svetlana was the body, lifting vases and pushing tables aside; the two terriers were the tail, trotting after the women, rushing to keep up, their paws skittering across the floorboards. Cardboard boxes labelled “Fragile, Christmas” were dotted about on armchairs, and strings of fairy lights were draped over tables.
‘Svetlana, the hall table needs to move, then it’s just the sofa,’ said his mother, folding her list and sliding it into a back pocket.
Svetlana bustled past Alex, the dogs following.
